


Lullabies

by theskywasblue



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Fatherhood, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-17
Updated: 2011-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-14 20:51:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theskywasblue/pseuds/theskywasblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys are sick, and John is exhausted</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lullabies

Dean is asleep, the sorcery of a tepid bath and Children’s Tylenol having finally, _finally_ worked its magic after hours of snotty whimpers and hoarse coughs; but Sammy is still fussing, still coughing and warm. John knows he can’t give Sammy more medicine for at least two hours and he can’t bear to chance Dean waking up, can’t spend one more minute watching his oldest boy hold back the tears to prove how brave he is, so he’s walking the hotel hallway humming “Hey Jude” and praying, over and over _c’mon Sammy, go to sleep. Go to sleep for daddy. Please Sammy please_.

He hates nights like these, nights when he’s so beaten down he can’t even remember his anger, all that’s inside him is the pain, the aching certainty of his loss, and the certainty that he has no idea what he’s even doing and he’s brought two innocent little boys along for this bus ride to Hell. His eyes feel swollen with desperation, his throat tight with it; but he knows that he can’t let himself fall apart, because there’s no one else to pick up the pieces. He can’t allow himself to give in to the pounding headache, or the fact that he hasn’t had more than an hour’s sleep in two days because his boys don’t have anyone else.

He stops next to the door of their room, trying – over the sound of Sammy’s raspy breathing – to hear if Dean might be awake. His shoulders ache and there’s a pinch in his back as he cradles Sammy against his body, a little like Mary would when she was nursing, because Sammy seems to like it best; but he’s so heavy now, growing so fast. He’s going to be a big boy – strong too, if John has anything to say about it; strong enough to fight off the darkness – but right now he’s just a baby, snuffling and warm with his little fists pulling irritably at John’s sweaty tee.

John leans against the wall, trying to take a little, just a little, of the pressure off his back. A woman walks by – some other guest – gives him one of those quietly pitying looks that he’s gotten used to the last two months. Strangers either feel sorry for him or suspicious of him, a single man with two little boys in a cheap motel room.

Sammy starts the little hitches again, the ones that mean he’s about thirty seconds from complete inconsolable tears, so John pushes away from the wall, rocking side to side, his voice cracking as he tries, “Hey Sam, don’t make it bad...” low and tuneless, nothing like the way Mary would sing it, but Sammy doesn’t remember the sound of his mother’s voice by now, so it works; and John’s almost sobbing with relief in between the lyrics when Sammy finally drifts off, his mouth gaped and breath whistling past his lips.

Back in the room, Dean is still out, dreamless and still. He doesn’t feel feverish anymore, and John feels relief break over him like a cold wave. He puts Sammy down in the rented cot, pulls it over within arm’s reach of the bed and sits down, knees shaking with exhaustion. He curls one hand around the rail of the cot, puts the other hand between Dean’s shoulder blades, and falls asleep sitting up.

-End-


End file.
